Kindred Spirits
by Amymimi
Summary: Margaret is caught being immersed in Major Winchester's music, much to her embarrassment.  One shot.


**KINDRED SPIRITS**

_Margaret is caught being immersed in Major Winchester's music, much to her embarrassment. Oneshot._

_Note: this is not a prequel or a sequel to my other M*A*S*H fanfic. It's completely different. I hope you'll let me know what you think about this little oneshot. I haven't written a bona fide oneshot in almost 10 years!_

* * *

I stop in place midway across the compound, the sound of an orchestra reaching my ears. It shocks me out of the reverie of this army camp, of these uncouth military men whose most civilized actions consist of the first time they have to fix their beds for their drill sergeants.

When is he going to realize that playing that music in the Swamp is the biggest contradiction in this whole godforsaken war?

I'm headed for the Mess Tent and its terrible excuses for food when I consider for a second. The compound is deserted. Not so much as a jeep or a single officer or enlisted man is walking around. I think it's still a bit too early for there to be lots of hustle and bustle. Of course it's not too early for Major Winchester to fire up his phonograph. It's just not… appropriate. When there are shells dropping all around us and bloodied teenage boys being brought in on litters, only to be stitched up with the speed of a veterinarian sewing up a spayed dog and to then be sent back out on the fields, the sound of Mozart isn't what we're all hearing in our heads.

I hate loud noises. I hate shelling and rocket launchers and exploding grenades and even thunderstorms. Until Major Winchester began playing classical music on his phonograph, I could hear those noises of war in the back of my head all day—not loudly enough to scare me, but loud enough to know my reason for being here.

Now I'm not so sure.

"Aren't you coming to breakfast?" I hear. I turn to face the source of the question. It's Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce, still clad in his maroon bathrobe and sneakers, a _ten_ o' clock shadow on his face, looking as undisciplined and as coarse as ever. He'd snuck up on me, somehow. Naturally, I roll my eyes.

"Of course I'm coming," I mutter, my voice still a bit gravelly even though I've been awake for at least an hour now.

"Then why haven't you moved for more than a minute?"

"No reason." I avert my eyes, now able to hear the swelling of strings coming from the Swamp. I've not heard this song before. Charles must have gotten a new shipment of records from his sister. The piece was hauntingly beautiful, but why oh why did it have to get so damn loud just now?

"It's Winchester, isn't it?" Hawkeye asks, gesturing in the direction of his tent. "He definitely knows how to get me and Beej out of the Swamp. Concertos are awfully disconcerting in a place like this, eh?"

I remain still, and I say nothing. I don't really know what to say. I can't help but picture an orchestra in my mind… An orchestra with all its musicians dressed in black, their instruments polished to a fine sheen. The string instruments, the violins and violas and cellos and basses, all looking like wooden mirrors; and they're not even on the same scale as the reflectivity of the brass instruments. It really doesn't matter what the instruments look like, though; it's how they look as the musicians play the music. It's being in the audience at the moment the conductor lifts his baton, the moment the musicians begin to play.

"Well, are you coming?"

"In a second. I think I forgot something," I explain, pursing my lips together thoughtfully.

"If you see us all on the ground when you get there, Margaret, for heaven's sake don't drink the coffee. It tasted better than usual yesterday, so it might be fully poisoned today."

I nod my head, my lack of concentration barely able to sustain this conversation.

"Thanks."

I watch him stride away, his back slightly hunched as he strides purposefully towards the Mess Tent. He has his hands tucked into the pockets of his robe, and his head is thrust forward as is customary of him.

The music coming from the Swamp has since hushed. Is it already over? I feel disappointment welling up inside me. It's enough for me to be angry at Captain Pierce for interrupting my music-filled reverie. I stand there for another minute, straining to hear the beginning of the next movement, which never comes.

"Major Houlihan."

I noticeably flinch and turn around to face Major Winchester, the bringer of music, refinement, and momentary forgetfulness. I feel instant embarrassment.

"Good morning, Major Winchester," I say, straightening my back and composing myself once again.

"Have you been standing here long?" he asks, staring at me intently with a concerned expression. I certainly can't deny that I've been standing in place, for my feet are firmly planted side by side.

"Oh," I reply, a sheepish smile appearing on my face, "not too long. I was headed to the Mess Tent."

"Was my music disturbing you?"

I blink at him for a moment. How could he think such a thing?

"Of course not," I respond, a bit too enthusiastically. He notices this and is intrigued.

"Is that to say you enjoy it?"

I'm visibly flustered now. For weeks—even months, now—I've stood outside the Swamp in the morning listening to that music with him completely unaware, those many mornings in which we had no casualties or officer meetings. Now that Charles had caught me eavesdropping, what would that mean for this typical morning routine of his?

"I guess so," I reply, shrugging animatedly. "Please don't stop playing it on account of me."

"I'm very pleased that you like classical music, Margaret," he says, smiling at me. I smile back at him.

"I never thought I could like it, but every time I hear it, I just—"

"You needn't explain further," he comments. "Along those same lines, may I propose an alternative to breakfast in the Mess Tent?" Charles begins, thrusting his hands in the pockets of his trousers.

"What, you get breakfast foods in the mail now?" I blurt. He shakes his head as if ashamed of the fact that he doesn't. I'm confused by this, and it must show on my face, because he speaks next.

"Half a pot of coffee and some capers, but physical nourishment isn't the goal here; it's cultural nourishment."

"I'm not sure what you mean, Charles," I say, baffled by his lofty language. He smiles at me like one would regard a curious child.

"What I am saying is that we can feast our _ears_ on music. I have Rossini, Tchaikovsky, Wagner, Rachmaninoff, Beethoven, Mozart, Bach…."

"That sounds good," I reply. I watch his smile grow until his entire expression is that of utter delight. We walk towards the entrance to the Swamp and he holds the door open for me, the quintessential gentleman. He sits down by his phonograph and indicates a spot for me on his cot. Once I am seated, he pulls out dozens upon dozens of albums, and I am embarrassed by my lack of knowledge as he thumbs through various composers' albums and their symphonies and concertos and serenades and sonatas.

"What would you like to hear first?" he asks me, clearly thrilled that someone else on the compound shares his interest in music.

"You can play your favorites, if you'd like," I say, my face likely reddening as I speak. "I'm really pretty new to classical music."

"Do you have no opinion on the matter? Believe me; I won't judge you, even if you prefer Salieri over Mozart. However, I have no Salieri here, if that's your quandary."

"It's not that," I begin. "It's just… I know next to nothing about music. Don't even get me started on those Latin words used to describe music that's loud or soft or fast or slow."

"Ah," he says, getting an idea. "I can teach you a rather clever pneumonic device to remember—"

"And I don't know any composers or the era in which they composed," I blurt, interrupting him.

"I see," he murmurs, glancing down at his records then back up at me. My answer probably isn't the answer he had hoped for. He had probably desired me to be some kind of music kindred spirit, one with whom he could debate the miniscule details of the composers and the mood of each movement—all things I know absolutely nothing about. He looks at me now, largely ignoring the records by his feet. "So what is it exactly that you enjoy about classical music?"

I take a deep breath, feeling as I usually do around Major Winchester: ignorant and unrefined.

"All I know is that whatever you play on your phonograph, when I hear it, it makes me forget what I'm doing here. I like the feeling that forgetting gives me."

He pauses as if frozen in place, his gaze fixed on the floor, head tilted towards the ground. I sigh and continue speaking, filling what I perceive to be an awkward silence.

"I can understand if you're disappointed by me not being a kind of kindred spirit in music—"

Suddenly his head shoots up and he's now grinning at me with a smile that can almost be called toothy. Needless to say, a toothy smile on Major Charles Emerson Winchester III is an extremely rare occurrence.

"But you are," he says, his voice pleasant and comforting, his smile fading into a look of deep thought. "Inasmuch as music touches me on a deeper level of awareness, it helps me forget that I'm here. Music lets me leave this place, if only for an hour or so."

"But won't my sitting here with you right now make it harder for you to do that?"

"On the contrary," he replies, smiling softly as he shakes his head. In response to my look of confusion, he extends his hand towards me. "We can leave here together."


End file.
